“You never know.”
Fair enough. The other weapon lying in a scabbard he recognised well enough as well, having seen the beast in action for himself, on that first fateful day. He lifted it, holding it almost reverentially, before sliding it from the scabbard and hoisting it in one hand. It was heavy, yet perfectly weighted. He could feel the craftsmanship, inexperienced though he might be.
“XII’s sword,” Gertie whispered from nearby. “That weapon has killed more creatures of the night than you’ve had hot meals.”
“I’ve had very few of those lately,” Brian replied, stomach grumbling, still eyeing the polished metal with its engraved runes. He glanced at her. “Will you teach me to use it?”
“Gladly,” she told him.
He nodded before sheathing it once more and placing it back in the boot, nodding as if satisfied. Why was he taking all of this in his stride so easily? Why was he eyeing all these weapons and evaluating them as to their potential usefulness? He suddenly realised; it was the ring. The ring was feeding him with the knowledge and wisdom of his predecessors, overriding his natural, all pervading fear. He didn’t like the feeling, didn’t like this sensation of being swept along in matters. Had all the other Helsings felt the same way at the start, he wondered? The ring told him that yes, they had, if not quite to the same extent. Suddenly, his eyes caught sight of another box, this one filled with strange phials of brightly coloured liquids, all the hues of the rainbow.
“What’s that?”
“Potions.” It was Otto, this time, the man’s bright white crown of hair lending him all the appearance of an eccentric dandelion as he explained. “Each has a different effect; I’d read the instructions printed on the labels before drinking them.”
“I will.” He frowned for an instant; why did this all feel like a goodbye? “Am I…? Am I supposed to be leaving now? It’s early isn’t it? Lunch time?”
“No, you’re not supposed to be leaving yet,” Heimlich told him, frowning. “Why do you ask?”
“Because it feels like a goodbye.”
The Masters all looked at each other, confused, before Heimlich ventured once more.
“Well… it’s not?”
“Oh. Erm, good.”
Awkward. But then, awkward was a byword for Brian’s life.
“Besides,” said Friedrick. “You can’t go yet, I’ve one last trick to show you.” He steamed his way forwards to the driver’s door, reaching for the handle. Slowly, with a loud and insistent beeping, he reversed, opening the door. He made to steam forwards once more, to reach inside, before realising his chair kept him too far from the centre console. With a sigh of resignation, he looked at Brian. “Young Helsing, would you care to press that blue button?”
“The air conditioning?”
“No, the one above it.”
“The one with the picture of a great fuck-off gun on it?”
“Yes, that one.”
Brian did as he was asked, reaching in and pressing the button. A whirring noise from the front of the car, a panel opening in the bonnet and, from it, a shape rising up, pointing forwards. A shape he recognised.
“That’s…”
“Yes,” Friedrick grinned. “Your old friend, the Punisher. Thought if I mounted it to Bertha you wouldn’t fall on your back and spray bullets everywhere like an idiot.”
“Does that take silver bullets too?”
“At a thousand rounds a minute? Don’t think so, even our sponsors would balk at that. Besides, even a vampire turns to red-mist if you hit it with enough fifty-calibre rounds.”
Brian grinned at the thought, fully imagining Cassandra standing in front of the car as he pressed the trigger. Suddenly, the image morphed into her draped across the bonnet in black, lacy lingerie. He shook his head free from the visions and turned back to Friedrick.
“Thanks.” A stunned silence settled upon the Armoury. Even Frank ceased for a moment in his constant hammering to look over. “What?”
“That’s the first time you’ve thanked any of us,” Heimlich told him, a smile on his face. “It’s almost like you’re starting to get used to the idea of being Helsing.”
“Nonsense,” Brian blurted hurriedly. “I just like the idea of a massive gatling gun on my car, that’s all. Could come in useful. Y’know, rush hour and all that.” Their faces showed that they weren’t falling for it. Thankfully, his phone chose that exact moment to vibrate in his pocket. He retrieved it, glancing down at his screen. “Neil, asking what I’m up to, whether I’ve killed anything yet.” He paused for a moment, pondering. “Can I take him on my mission tonight? You know, for moral support? I mean, if he’s not too distracting…”
Heimlich laughed.
“He’s not too distracting,” he replied. “Not anymore. And sure. But if he dies, it’s on your head.”
“Cool.”
“But you’re not going out like that,” Gertie told him, gesturing at his clothes. “We need to get you in an outfit fit for a Helsing.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Brian asked, looking at his faded Number of the Beast T-shirt and worn-through Primark jeans in his reflection in the car window.
“If you’re a student or a fifty-year old metalhead on benefits, nothing. But a Helsing should be dressed a bit more… impressively. Follow me.”
For what felt like the millionth time, Brian found himself following one of the Masters on some mysterious errand. Once more, the two, the lanky streak and the petite girl, made their way towards the central chamber, then towards the staircase, this time spiralling upwards. A room, they found themselves in, this one small, with mirrors along one wall, a bench in the middle. Gertie closed the door behind them, muting the sounds of activity from below, before flicking a switch on the wall. One whole section of the wall slid away, to reveal a huge walk-in wardrobe.
“Now these are clothes to suit a Helsing,” she giggled.
Brian had to say, he was impressed. Long leather coats, denim jackets, fancy suits, hats, canes, umbrellas. There were enough clothes in here to suit any style, to blend into any social circle, all the while looking intensely cool, as befitted a badass hunter of demons. He wandered through the racks of clothes; each of the items of clothing were hung up in various sizes, ranging from small to sizes that would fit even his praying mantis frame.
“So, this is like my super-suit?”
“Kind of. I mean, you can wear what you want, really. There’s no rules as such. But Helsing is more than just a title, it’s a figurehead. Helsing is meant to strike fear into the hearts of the undead. When Helsing is abroad, the creatures of the night that would prey on the unwary innocents falter and stay indoors. You need a uniform that befits such a legend. But at the same time, it needs to represent you.”
“I don’t know what to choose,” he admitted. “My fashion sense is…”
“Non-existent?”
“Pretty much.”
Gertie nodded, before striding close to him.
“Take off your clothes.”
“This is moving a bit faster than I’m comfortable with.”
“I’m going to help you choose a uniform,” she grinned. “Relax. I’m not about to jump on you.”
Part of him was relieved at that. But strangely, only a part of him. Slowly, hesitatingly, he removed his t-shirt, then afterwards, one and a half trainers and his jeans, standing there before her in his boxers and socks. A glimpse of his own physique, for want of a better word, he caught in the mirror; were his abs more defined than the days previous? Did his arms and shoulders look a little bulkier? He didn’t have a chance to ask for a second opinion, for Gertie was already buzzing like a bee about the clothing racks, selecting a little something from here, something else from there.
“Try these on,” she said, thrusting clothes into his hands. “There’s a changing room over there.”
Brian glanced down at his nigh-naked form.
“Bit redundant now, don’t ya think?”
&nb
sp; “Humour me. I want the full effect when you’re in your new clobber.”
And so he did as he was bade, disappearing into the tiny cubicle and drawing the velvet curtain behind him. What had she passed to him, he thought, as he discarded the clothes onto the chair. A long leather coat, de rigeur for hunting vampires. A wide-brimmed hat. Wait… wasn’t this all very similar to XII’s clothes? He shrugged; the man had looked cool, all broody and weather-beaten, he had to admit that. Slowly, with great difficulty in the tight confines, he climbed into the gear. Then finally, he strode out back into the room.
“Finally,” Gertie murmured. “You look like what you are.”
“And what’s that?” he asked.
She eyed him strangely.
“Helsing.”
The two stared at each other, eye to much-lower eye, a strange silence, a tension in the air, both sensing this new and different dynamic. They both opened their mouths as if to speak, then Brian’s stomach chose that moment to rumble once more, this time louder than ever.
“I’m hungry,” he declared, glad to break the tension, if a little embarrassed.
“So it seems.”
“Is there anything to eat in the Sanctum?”
“Nope. But there’s the National Trust café on the Mount.”
“Really? Millions coming in from the government and there’s not even a staff canteen?”
“We get discount. Ten percent.”
“Ten?” Brian was about to voice something suitably sarcastic, but then his stomach grumbled once more. “Fine. I hope they take card.”
“They do,” Gertie smiled, slowly walking towards him and re-arranging the wide lapels on his leather trench-coat. “And I’ll join you in a pasty. But after that, you’d best be on your way to Bodmin. The Scryers have narrowed the banshee down to appearing in a few places and you’d do well to scout the places out. Don’t want to be caught by surprise.”
“Speaking of the banshee, what’s the plan?”
“Like we were discussing before; find her, flirt with her, whisper sweet nothings into her spectral ear until she disappears.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” she told him, fixing his eyes with a strange gaze, one that he’d never seen before in a woman. “Try not to die.”
Chapter Seventeen: Date Night
The Camaro howled its V8 bellow to the uncaring Cornish evening sky and, not for the first time, Brian shrunk back into the leather bucket seat, gripping the door handle for dear life and fervently wishing he’d never handed Neil the keys.
“This thing is awesome!” his friend proclaimed, a grin on his face as they dispatched another car in their thunderous wake. He glanced down at the centre console, spying a blue button above the air conditioning. “What’s this button do?”
“Don’t touch that! For God’s sake, don’t touch that.”
Neil shrugged, forgetting the button and focusing once more on the road ahead.
“So, a banshee, eh?”
“Yup.”
“And you’re supposed to flirt with her? So this is like… a date?”
Brian scowled.
“I wish people would stop saying that. It’s not a date. I’ve not been on a proper date in over two years and I won’t have my dry spell broken by a fucking ghost.”
“Fucking a ghost, more like,” Neil chuckled.
“Shut up. And no, nothing like that. I just have to butter her up a bit. You know; tell her she’s pretty, compliment her. Should be easy enough,” he gulped.
Neil gave him an amused side-ways glance.
“Really? Easy? You, the man I’ve seen let rip a nervous fart just because the pretty girl behind the kebab shop counter gave you a wink?”
“It’s a banshee, Neil. A ghost. A tortured spirit bound to roam the Earth, torn halfway between the worlds of the living and the dead. I sincerely doubt she’s going to be pretty. More like the opposite, probably some floating sack of half-rotten flesh. And anyway, the reason I get nervous around pretty women who show me attention is the fear that it might eventually lead somewhere and they’ll be inevitably disappointed. Doubt things’ll be getting that far with the banshee. Hope not, at least. Besides; you’ll be with me to help.”
Neil frowned, puzzled, as he slowed down behind a trundling tractor, towing a plough and belching clouds of black soot as it ambled along at twenty miles per hour. Why they all had to use the main dual-carriageway all the time, he didn’t know.
“Good point, how am I supposed to help again?”
Brian drew a deep breath.
“You’re going to tell me what to say…”
“Tell you what to say?” Neil laughed, hearty and strong. “I’ve got to flirt with a ghost, by proxy? Epic.”
“Epic isn’t the word I’d use,” Brian told him. “Banshees are fast and deadly. You’ll have to keep out of sight if you want to stay alive.”
“I will,” Neil promised, a grin of excitement on his face. “Besides, I’ve got the legendary Helsing to protect me, right?”
“Supposedly. Anyway, are you in?”
“I’m in,” Neil declared, before darting into the overtaking lane and flooring the throttle, launching the car past the tractor, slamming Brian’s head back into the headrest in the process. “What’s the plan for when we get there?” he continued. “And where’s she meant to be turning up?”
“There’s a hot spot of activity, so the Scyers say, a cemetery out back of a housing estate on the edge of town. We’ll head there. Apparently banshees are nocturnal and she won’t be making an appearance till about midnight or so.”
“What we gonna do till then?”
“Some dutch courage, methinks,” Brian sighed. “Might as well get a couple of pints in before she shows up and tries to tear my head off. If there’s a chance I might die, I’d rather be drunk. Or at least merry.”
“What about driving back?”
“I’ll get us a hotel room, we’ll stay over.”
“I don’t get paid till next week,” Neil protested. “So I hope you’re picking up the bill.”
Brian smiled weakly at that last comment.
“That’s not a problem. I’ll even get the beers in.”
“Well, check out Mr Moneybags over here. Demon-hunting pays well then, I take it? Do you get a commission on each monster you take out?”
“Nope,” Brian replied. “A flat rate.”
“Wicked. Any benefits, I mean other than the car and the mad stacks?”
Brian pondered his words, images of dyed pigtails and twinkling eyes dancing in his mind.
“Some,” he admitted. A green sign beside the road up ahead, declaring ten miles to Bodmin. Brian raised his phone, opening his maps app. “Right, let’s find a pub. I have a thirst on, and I want it well and truly quenched before this mission.”
“Date,” Neil corrected him, as Brian stared daggers at his shit-eating grin.
Five pints in and the pair had already lost twenty quid to both the quiz machine and the one-armed bandit, finally giving it up both as a bad job and moving now over to the darts board. The pair often played a game of arrows or two of a night, Neil by far the better of the two. And so, when they’d been challenged to a match by the pair of locals, one short, round, with the rosy cheeks that spoke of a perpetual pub-dweller, the other grizzled and bald, with a nose that looked like it had been broken more than its fair share of times, it had been Neil who’d stepped up to the crease, Brian content to sit back and watch, sipping his pint and glad not to be showing himself up.
“Shit,” Neil declared, face dropping as the last dart landed in the board with a thud.
He’d got a bullseye on his first throw, but then only a ten and a five, meaning that for his last round he’d need to hit a nigh-impossible one-hundred and eighty to win. And the two chuckling locals only needed ninety, a far easier goal.
“Best get that tenner ready,” short-round laughed, walking up to the toeline and readying his arrows.
He threw them, one after the other, with the seasoned skill of a misspent youth. His first hit a double twenty, his smirk widening. The second thudded into the black, a mere twenty. Thirty or more now and they’d won the game, making Neil and Brian thirty pounds down for the night. He aimed his last dart for the double twenty again, throwing, already confident of his victory. The missile hit the metal, pinging away to land on the floor.
“Fuck!” he barked. “Should’ve had that.”
“No bother, Frank,” his flat-nosed compadre comforted him. “He needs a one-eighty now. Once he’s failed that, I’ll mop up. Then our next round is on them,” he added, with a snorting laugh.
Neil gulped, made to aim, then paused, as if thinking.
“Brian?” he asked his friend. “Care to tag in for this last go?”
“Hmm?” Brian swilled his pint, one eyebrow raised. “Not really, no.”
“C’mon,” Neil goaded him, smiling. His eye glanced briefly down at the ring on Brian’s finger. “You know you want to give it a try. Besides; it’s your tenner we wagered.”
Brian sighed, before nodding and putting his pint down on a beer mat. The two locals grinned at each other as they watched him take the darts from Neil’s hand and step up to the line.
“Yeah, come on, Texas Pete,” short-round laughed, eyeing the lad’s long coat and wide-brimmed hat, digging his chuckling friend in the ribs with one pudgy elbow. “Show us how they do it in the Wild West.”
Brian paused and glanced their way. Funny; despite the terrors he’d faced the last couple of days, both supernatural and of his own – or Heimlich’s – making, the mocking stares of drunk chavs still caused a flutter of nerves in his belly. They looked like the kind of people whose children would have picked on him at school, mocking his gangly frame, his lack of social skills. Forcing the thoughts from his mind, he turned his gaze back to the board and took aim. He wasn’t as good at this as Neil, he knew that; his hands had a way of jerking like a marionette at the behest of some Parkinson’s-riddled puppet master, just at the wrong instant. Maybe it would be different this time, he thought? Maybe the ring would lend him preternatural darts skills too? Had his forebears played darts in their downtime, he wondered? He doubted it. With a deep breath, he drew back his first dart. And threw.
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter Box Set 1 - Missions 1-3 Page 12
